


Remember, remember

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Guy Fawkes Night, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay lights a bonfire. Theon learns a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember, remember

**Author's Note:**

> Happy _[ha. ha.]_ Guy Fawkes Day everyone!

It was good to be outside again, even if it meant shaking and shivering in the cold. He hadn't seen the sky since they'd made a run for it, him and Kyra, and his memories of that night were blurred and distorted, the clouds in his mind spattered with blood as his ears rang with her screams. He had not seen her again, and none of the men had brought her up, not even Ramsay. It was an indulgence and a lie, but he liked to pretend to himself that she'd managed to get away somehow. That she'd make it. That any minute now they would hear sirens in the distance, and by tomorrow morning he'd be tucked into a hospital bed, stuffed chock full of morphine and overcooked pasta. And they'd treat Ramsay and the rest of them to the good cop/bad cop routine, just without the good cop, of course. Just a dream, he knew, but it was something to keep him alive a little longer.  
Tonight, the sky was clear and littered with stars, and very far away. Theon looked up longingly, until the sheer distance made him dizzy and he had to steady himself against a tree.

He had used to love the smell of winter as it came crawling across the countryside, hoarfrost and wood fires in its wake. Now all he could smell was the rot, the mouldiness of fungus that clung to the branches and wet, decaying leaves. There was the smell of mulled wine on Ramsay's breath sometimes now, when he came to visit and kiss him goodnight, down in the basement where they kept him. There was the smell of something bad about to happen. And petrol.  
Theon blinked, scrunching up his face as the stench burned in his nostrils. Ramsay snickered, throwing an arm around him, and he tossed the empty canister aside as he pulled him close.  
“Don't worry, you'll be nice and toasty in a minute, once we get the fire going.”  
Theon mumbled incoherent thanks, Ramsay's smell and the feel of his body pressed against him enough to make him gag.  
“He better be impressed,” Damon called from across the yard, kicking final pieces into place and emptying his own canister. “I swear this is the biggest one we've had so far.”  
He was right, it was the biggest bonfire Theon had ever seen, bigger even than the ones they'd had at home, salt-crusted pieces of driftwood casting burning shadows all across the bay. It was bigger than the one he'd built with Robb … _an entire year gone,_ he thought suddenly. And it felt like a lifetime ago.

It was a towering structure, tall and dark against the sky and slightly lopsided. Made from old clothes and rags and bones and bits and pieces, purses and keychains, an iPhone, a pair of rollerskates ... Theon knew exactly what it was. _A funeral pyre._  
So many of them though. So many shirts and shoes and stray strands of hair of various colours, he could not count them. Not that it mattered, not to him at least. Not really, he thought, double-checking the numbness in his heart as if to make sure he did not have it in him anymore to care. It was over for them, now. Soon they'd be nothing but bitter ashes. He could almost taste them on his tongue.  
“Let's not forget the most important part, shall we?” Ramsay shouted suddenly, his voice drunk with glee, and it caused a sinking feeling in the pit of Theon's stomach. _Wh_ _at is he so excited about?_

Grunt had the doll flung across his shoulders; he must have just fetched it from the shed. Though it was hard to tell considering the man's brutish strength, the thing seemed fairly heavy, with proper limbs and shoes and gloves, arms and legs bound together with zip tie, because apparently Ramsay couldn't even do Bonfire Night without a touch of _Saw_. Theon wondered which of them had made it. He could almost picture the blood-thirsty lot of them all sitting down together for a late-night DYI session, hot glue guns in hand and mugs of chocolate steaming on the table.The idea was so absurd Theon smiled for half a second, hoping it would go unnoticed, before the sight of the doll from up close sent a shiver down his spine. He almost backed away when the plastic mask caught a beam of moonlight. It seemed to look straight at him. He was glad when Grunt tossed it on the pyre with a heavy thud and its face vanished between petrol-soaked rags.

Ramsay, meanwhile, had lit a cigarette, and he shoved the burning match at Theon.  
“Go on then,” he ordered, blowing a slender plume of smoke in his face, “you have the honour.”  
The match had already burned down to a scant inch, so Theon was eager to get rid of it before the flame could bite his bandaged fingers. The bonfire went up with a _swoosh_ and a blast of hot air, bathing the scene in yellow light, and he stumbled backwards into Ramsay's arms that closed possessively around him, drawing him against his chest.

They watched for a little while, the hiss and crackle of the flames loud enough to make all talk unnecessary, and Theon was grateful for it. And the warmth, oh the warmth was a blessing, licking at his tired face and hands as he tried to relax and ignore Ramsay as best he could. Of course he couldn't, in the end. He couldn't ignore his breath in his ear between drags of smoke, moist and hot, almost panting, almost like an excited dog. For an uncomfortable moment he thought he could feel his heartbeat against him, a deep dark drum that disturbed his own rhythm. He furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of it all. Looking for the trap that must be there somewhere, right before his eyes. And then he smelled it.

Ramsay flicked the cigarette butt into the flames just as the doll began to stir, coming to only now, despite the fire that was already eating at its arms and legs. Theon jumped in horror, knowing without having the slightest clue what was going on that _he did not want to watch this_ , but Ramsay's arms held fast.  
“Don't you dare look away,” he breathed into his ear, smiling as they watched, side by side. And listened.  
It was a low wail at first, muffled by a gag no doubt hidden beneath the mask. There were cracks and bursts as the flames found puddles of petrol between bones and bits, and the creature on the pyre began to dance, flailing and squirming as far as its restraints allowed. The wail rose to a series of gasps and cries, and finally escalated into a drawn-out, blood curdling scream that lasted far, far too long before it finally ebbed away. Theon knew the voice. _Too good a dream not to go up in fucking flames._

Ramsay's laugh was a low hum against the back of his neck. His skin was numb to the touch of his wet lips. He was numb all over. And that was perhaps the saddest part.  
“Remember, remember,” Ramsay said, closing his eyes against the sparks as the pyre collapsed, swallowing the body in its fiery heart as if dragging it down to hell. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of burning flesh. Theon retched.  
“Always remember who you are.”


End file.
